


Suppression

by stut_ter



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stut_ter/pseuds/stut_ter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the old mythologies, well, they never really went away.  They just died out and watered down and became someone's cousin's nephew's roomate's sister...right?</p><p>Or</p><p>How Kurt Hummel starts to lighten up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suppression

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Kurt Blaine Reverse Bang Hiatus Picture Prompt! The picture I used is here:
> 
> I am SO greatful to have been given beautiful art by the incomparable magicalplaylist. I will link to it when her full art is up AND I intend to write MORE in this 'verse and take prompts, too! <3

Being alone has never been the issue. 

It’s more the _feeling_ as people walk in and around and beside you, with no actual intent to touch another person because, well, this is a city and here you need to know to _know_ and no one really knows him, so…

He really would like to be known, sometimes.

He sighs as he walks, the zoetrope of human faces blurring and whirring around him as he makes his way for the subway and feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

From: Izalia  
 _Well?_

He looks up at the sky, deep ashen clouds threatening rain. _Just_ once he thinks.

To: Izalia  
 _Fine, but I’m not going for long. Text me the address and I’ll meet you inside._

From: Izalia  
 _You won’t regret it, Kurt. You’ll leave feeling so *perfect*._

Kurt reads the message and shakes his head before disappearing below ground, phone signal - and Izalia - lost.

***

A gentleman with glowing cufflinks under bare-bulb lanterns takes Kurt’s twenty as he lifts his feet high, trying to avoid the storm-drenched newspaper with his Steve Maddens. He crosses through the saturated velvet ropes, already deep dark with the hour, and glances at the dislodged mortar between the building’s bricks, wondering at its stability. He nods to the bouncer and slips through the door, the hinges creaking as he pushes it closed behind him. 

Another man is inside wearing the same cufflinks, hat and maybe even the same face, but Kurt does not pause as he motions to the end of the hallway, the few small bulbs wavering back and forth between deciding to work or not. Kurt’s spine bows a bit, the cutting realization of unmet expectations in the peeling paint on the walls; in the dusty pile carpet, moth-eaten. He had come looking for...well, not really sure what, but this was not it.

He stops mid-hall, holding his breath, hips loose and ready to turn back, until the bouncer opens his mouth the tiniest bit.

_Keep going._

Kurt feels it in his feet and begins to walk, though no words were spoken. 

_You are safe here._

His right foot leads his left down the corridor until the sullen brown brass around the door winks back at him, reflecting nothing.

He reaches out to turn the knob and holds his breath, sending out one last hope into the void.

***

Blaine’s hand slips on the powder-covered edge of the vanity when Claude pounds on the door.

He pulls his hand back, cursing under his breath as the manager’s voice slips through the keyhole along the silken back of the incense the club always burns.

“You’re on in five, Anderson. Move it.”

“Clearly I would be quicker if you weren’t scaring the shit out of me,” he snipes back, locating a towel and wiping his hands on it before depositing it in the rickety hamper beside the door. The wicker thing had once been elegant and stately but now sags and groans with age.

Claude opens the door.

“Sorry about that,” the old man wheezes out, the horns on his head barely visible under his oversized moleskin bowler. Blaine eyes him and realizes the man needs Blaine as much as the customers tonight, and his heart softens. He grips Claude’s wrist and the skin crackles like dried parchment. 

“Hey, now,” Blaine murmurs, not wanting the other employees bustling by to hear. “Why did you wait so long to call?”

Claude leans heavily on Blaine’s side, his left hand coming up to scratch at the hair behind Blaine’s ear, disturbing the gel barely holding his black curls down.

“You got school, Blaine, and I promised your mother I wouldn’t overdo it, even if she is long gone,” he whispers, deep and low. It’s an old love there and it catches on Blaine’s heart and tugs a little hole in an old scar.

It pains him to think of her, leaving Blaine so long ago in this man’s care, but he’s certain Claude doesn’t need to know that right now. He half-hugs his aging caregiver and starts to move them forward, around the gaggling trio of do-woppers and through the crumbling stairwell to the gleaming stage.

“Okay then pops,” he says, settling Claude down in the chair just inside the curtains. He looks out to the set stage, a piano and microphone waiting and the soft wooden floor gleaming. Backstage may be a mess, and the entryway gives nothing away, but the area for customers has always been pristine. The perfect, controlled facade their clientele yearns for.

“Sit back and relax. I’ll see you soon and by then I expect to see some life in those eyes.”

Blaine rubs the man’s cold hands one more time and strides to the piano, his shoulders back and smile set just so.

***

“Georgia, you can just _not_ scream at the concerts.”

Kurt laughs and almost snorts the cosmo he’s been nursing the last twenty minutes up his nose.

The club had ended up being nothing like what he expected from the hall. Unlike the entry, the floors were solid wood and shining; the banisters gleaming gold. He had found the girls easily - Izalia, her fuschia Dryad hair on display, and Georgia with her screamy-laugh barely contained by the heavy crushed-velvet curtains beside their table. 

He had gone to the bar first and ordered the cosmo, carefully keeping his eyes on the bar and away from interested eyes, then snuck up on them, delighting in their giggles when he had poked them both in the side.

Izalia had been right about this place, of course. Try as he might he had never found something like this before. In his small town he had had to stay silent - ever silent - about his heritage. His father’s curse and his mother’s...gift. Even now, years later, he is unsure of what truly resides within him, and he holds himself apart. 

He had met Izalia by chance; had accidentally walked in on her willing the plants in the break room back to health, her long, thin hands glowing. After a moment of staring, each of them, she had leveled him with a look and spoken two words. 

_“We cool?”_

And he had laughed, bitterly at first, that she could be so careless yet so endearing; so completely and utterly _ballsy_ , and from then on they were friends. The first friend Kurt could recall being truly himself with, at least, mostly. He still didn’t touch her or sing to her, but he soothed her when she needed it, and it was through Izalia that he had met Georgia.

And now this place.

He stirs his drink and listens as Georgia pleads her case: just because she was born of a banshee _doesn’t_ mean that she can’t yell all she wants, thanks so much, she just makes people around her so _nervous_ and it’s really not her fault, you know…

Kurt zones a bit, enjoying their banter, their company, and their acceptance. It hadn’t been _horrible_ living in Ohio; just restrained, constricted. His father, a fallen angel with one too many mistakes to make up for, had been good to him, and they had made it work when his mother had passed.

For now, though, he tries not to think of her as the do-wop group takes their final bows and a five-minute intermission is called.

“You’re in for a treat tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” the Emcee calls out, causing Georgia and Izalia to turn their heads and quiet their chatter. “Tonight we welcome back our very own Blaine Anderson. Get comfortable and finish those drinks!”

There’s a mad flurry of applause from around the room, and Kurt actually sees people knocking back their drinks and scrambling to the bar for water. One man, the third eye on his cheek unmasked for the night, even pushes two chairs together and lays down.

Kurt watches it all and as Izalia squeals.

“Augh, yes! I hoped and hoped and here it is, _finally_! And Kurt! You’re here for it! It’s meant to be!” She’s beaming at him from across the table, her feet up on the soft leather bench beside him. Georgia’s arranging herself in the same way, clearing their empty glasses to the side and ignoring the pointed looks from the waitstaff as she anchors her knees against the table, her ankles dangling.

“Get comfortable, Kurtsie,” Georgia screams, and Izalia shushes her with an elbow to the ribs. Georgia glares at her and then continues, in mock whisper, “and finish your drink, you won’t be able to hold the glass for a little while.”

He does as he’s told, sipping the last of his cosmo through the thin red straw, the liquid burning down his throat in his haste. He pushes the glass to the end of the table and then leans on the balcony edge with his left arm, lifting his legs up to bend and fold beneath him.

“You might even want to take off your shoes, hell, I have,” sing-songs Izalia, and he’s surprised to find it’s true. She wiggles her stockinged toes at him and he rolls his eyes.

“You are both too much. This Blaine guy can’t be that amazing.”

Both of them just stare at him; Georgia with a sly smile and Izalia biting at her own lip before they both speak at once.

“Whatever you say.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune.”

He just tsks at them and swivels his head toward the stage.

***

Blaine takes his seat at the piano and waits, settling the fear in his stomach into something good; something pure and like light in the center of his chest. He feels it, a tiny ember of emotion wrapping itself in compassion and goodwill and then it’s flickering higher, roaring to life in his veins as it licks its way through his body and up, up, through his windpipe to trail over his tongue and gather on his lips.

He takes a deep breath, his fingers poised on the keys he’s known for what feels like a hundred years, and begins to sing.

***

Kurt, for his part, feels incredibly lucky to have the heavy curtains surrounding their box seats to hide behind because he...he just…

This was not what he expected at _all_.

When Blaine had come to the piano, Kurt’s spine had straightened and his heart had decided to keep time with wild horses somewhere in Colorado. His hands had become alternately like the deserts at night and the clammy damp of the Amazon all while the air in the room suddenly dried up, leaving him panting for breath.

And his pants had tightened, almost painfully; a reaction which he had had controlled for almost a decade now.

Worry had flared deep and red until-

Until Blaine’s voice.

And now, well, none of it _really_ matters, does it? At the moment all the matters is Kurt, his arms flopped together on the balcony ledge while his chin rests on his forearm, and Blaine, the smooth tenor of his voice curling around the ballroom and into every single patron’s mind, soothing, forgiving, taking all their cares and troubles and just...sifting them away.  
Tears pull themselves from somewhere deep, hidden even from Kurt himself, and he can’t help it as they spill over, carrying years-old self doubt, loss, and heartache with them.

“What-” he breathes, unable to help himself and the girls shush him quietly.

“Later,” Izalia promises and then closes her eyes, her own cheeks shining.

Blaine transitions then, the smooth chords of ‘My Funny Valentine’ changing, morphing into some piano creation that Kurt swears he can see floating up to him.

As soon as he lets himself bask, though, he realizes that Blaine is no longer at the piano. 

Part of Kurt thinks this should be alarming, but that part is so tiny, so quiet, compared to the floating of his body in its space right now; this feeling of peace.

“You. Are. Perfection.”

Kurt jolts and a warm hand holds his shoulder down.

“Hush, hush beautiful. I won’t hurt you. I just wanted to see you.” Blaine says, his lips barely brushing the skin of Kurt’s ear. Kurt shivers, and his body aches.

“P-please, I don’t...I don’t want to hurt you-”

“You would never hurt me, Kurt,” Blaine says, gold eyes gleaming and soft; controlled. The trust rolls out of him, over Kurt’s skin and into his bones.

Kurt’s body shakes again, and he tries - hard - to push Blaine away, but his arms just won’t seem to cooperate.

“You-” Kurt replies, and Blaine cups his cheek. “You don’t understand, I can’t touch you, I mean, I _will_ hurt you and you can’t-”

“Shh,” Blaine soothes, tracing Kurt’s lips. “Just picture it. How would you touch me, if you could? What would you tell me? Everything?”

“Yes,” Kurt shudders, and the tears spill over again. “God, yes.”

“You want me,” Blaine says, but his voice is soft, child-like. “Don’t you?”

Kurt tries to shake his head and in his mind it’s vigorous but in reality he moves barely centimeters. 

“No?” Blaine questions, smoothing his hands up Kurt’s face and into his hair. “That’s not what your body is saying to me, Kurt. I can taste it around you just _breathing_ , you know. I can see it in your eyes; in the angle of your hips...but I can wait.”

He smoothes Kurt’s hair and then pulls back.

“You’re going to think of me, tonight, though,” Blaine says, wide smile and honest eyes, the words not matching the face. “When you’re panting into your sheets and biting down on your bicep as you come. I could make it work, Kurt. Kurt. KURT.”

Kurt feels the smack before it actually registers that someone is hitting his arm.

“You’re going to fall over the edge of the balcony, Christ, Kurt, snap out of it!”

Kurt shakes his head and evaluates his situation.

Both of his arms are dangling over the edge and he’s now crouching by the edge of the balcony, his legs still folded stiffly and Izalia leaning across the table. He sweeps his eyes to the stage where a crew is moving the piano back behind the curtains and Blaine is nowhere to be found.

“I-” he begins, trying to find his bearings. “I really don’t know what just happened. Was Blaine here with us?”

Georgia belts out one of her ear-splitting laughs.

“Oh no, honey. Blaine never leaves that piano. When he’s performing they are a package deal. He finished his set, bowed to us all even though we were basically comatose and would all do his bidding, and disappeared offstage.” Georgia raises and lowers her eyebrows suggestively at the note about doing Blaine’s bidding, and Kurt feels himself flush. “Careful, sweetheart” she continues. “Don’t fall in love on the first night - there are a hundred of us here who want the same thing!” She shakes her boobs at him.

“Oh god,” he groans, hiding his heated face with his hands. “Is it like this for everyone?”

Izalia, who’s been quiet and watching the whole time, shakes her head. 

“I’ve...never seen someone react quite the way you did, no.” She’s scowling and the way she watches him makes him feel like some creature in a petri dish. 

Kurt shakes the rest of Blaine’s touch out of his hair and straightens his spine despite the desperate clawing ache in his chest...and groin.

“I’m sure it was just this one time,” he replies airily as he straightens his slacks. “It could happen to anyone.”

Izalia lifts her hand to the waiter and smirks.

“Surely,” she purrs back, and Kurt isn’t so stupid he misses her sarcasm.

***

He returns to the club the next night, alone. What Blaine had said had, regardless of his own stubborn pride, come true. For the first time in years Kurt had found himself unable to sleep after leaving the club, restlessly sighing and pulling lightly at his hair until three in the morning when he had finally given in and trailed shaking fingers down his own torso to circle his dick and quickly pull himself off. 

He had told himself it would just be once, and that if he need them, he knew exactly where the never-used restraints were if things got out of hand, but in the end that wasn’t necessary as the image of Blaine holding him close and whispering alternately the sweetest and _filthies_ t things in his ear seemed distraction enough.

So he goes back the next night. And again..and again until it’s been a week of barely sipped cosmos and frustration and Kurt just has to ask.

He strides up to the bar, locking eyes for the first time with a bartender there, and pretends not to be bothered by the severe-looking horns protruding through the man’s head like a mohawk.

“I’d like to know when Blaine Anderson is playing again,” he says, putting every ounce of umph he’s learned while at his day job into his voice. He watches as the man’s face breaks into a chortling grin.

“Yeah, buddy, you and everyone else in this place!” he yells, trying to be heard over the clamor of the crowd behind Kurt. “Just your luck, that’s why they’re all screamin’!”

Kurt whirls around and immediately curses himself for looking so eager. The bartender’s right, though. Blaine has just come out from behind the curtain, and this time there’s no piano in sight. Kurt scans the crowd and sees just what had happened a week ago - people pulling up chairs to lounge in or leaning on their tablemates, their eyes already partly glossed-over.

He has a moment to wonder about what exactly Blaine Anderson is before the man himself begins to speak.

“Well hello out there everyone,” Blaine begins, and Kurt’s muscles tense at the realization that he has no where to hide or sit at the moment. He listens as Blaine introduces himself again and banters with the bartender Kurt had just been speaking to, the spotlight swiveling over Kurt’s head as he searches manically for somewhere - anywhere, really - to sit.

“I heard these good people were giving you a problem, Patrick!” 

Kurt’s eyes scan the balconies - taken.

“You can say that again,” Patrick replies to the crowd’s good-natured boos. “It was all, ‘Where’s Blaine’ this and ‘I need him to sing to meeeee!” Patrick’s falsetto follows Kurt until he reaches the only place he can see - a spare chair three feet from the stage itself.

_Oh, god._

Kurt sits, and just in time, because Blaine tells them to get comfortable as he adjusts the mic stand and opens his mouth.

Kurt closes his eyes.

***

Kurt doesn’t really remember climbing up on stage, but that’s where he is, and he can feel every single eye in the room on him.

And he _loves_ it.

Blaine’s still singing, but Kurt’s not quite sure how; he’s clutching the microphone and Kurt’s-

Well, Kurt’s on top of Blaine and he knows damn well he doesn’t have wings - his father’s status had ensured that - but he _swears_ he can feel them rustling above them, and someone turned up the incense in here because it’s like there’s this intense _fog_ and Kurt’s brain just can’t keep track of his feelings because all he wants is this sweet abandon of his inhibitions. He’s waited so _long_ and just _wants_ so much.

“How are you doing this?” Kurt stuttered, back arching.

Blaine stops singing while the musical bridge takes over and pulls the microphone down.

“I’m not doing this, beautiful, but I can assure you I don’t mind it in the least.” He smiles that sweet smile that doesn’t seem to match the wandering hands below Kurt’s waist, and he feels himself pull back this time, back, back to the chair he’s sitting in.

Or was sitting in.

Now he’s at the edge of the stage, sitting cross legged below where Blaine’s just finished his song and staring at Kurt like maybe there’s something wrong with him

_Shit._

He watches, his limbs loose and heavy, as Blaine hands the microphone over to the Emcee and drops down beside him, concern etched in his face.

“Are you okay?” he begins, reaching out to rub circles onto Kurt’s back. “I mean, I watched you get up and barely make it to that spot. You should really just sit - it’s so much safer for you. I guess I should go over that again or-”

“Safer?” Kurt wonders, starting blearily at Blaine’s arm. Blaine’s chest, Blaine’s stomach, Blaine’s-

Blaine laughs from deep in his chest, waves lapping at the shore.

“I’m a siren,” Blaine says bluntly and without remorse. “Half-blooded. My mother began her reformation at fourteen, but even still it was too hard and she died years ago. I’ve been reformed since birth, so it’s not so hard for me. The mythies come here for my songs because, as you may have noticed, I can calm them, make all their fears of discovery and anger just...disappear for a night. My adoptive father owns the place, I guess you’d say. So I’m here sometimes.”

Kurt just nods while his muddled brain taps out morse code to his waking fingertips.

“I’ve never really made anyone get out of their chair to get closer,” Blaine says shyly, his left hand coming up to ruffle the loose hair at the base of his neck. “Care to clue me in?”

“Fallen angel father,” Kurt gets out, his breathing finally evening. 

Blaine gasps.

“Wow, so do you have-”

“No,” Kurt divulges. “But I can’t tell you how many times I wanted them as a kid. I...have the marks-”

_Why, WHY are you telling him this?_

“-but not the actual equipment,” Kurt finishes, and then cringes at the connotation. “I mean, I have, like, _that_ equipment but not-”

_Oh god, kill me, just smite me right here I promise you I-_

Blaine just plops himself down and begins to giggle.

“I think I have some kind of effect on you that I just have never seen, I am so sorry. I promise you I am blocking it so hard right now but it’s just-”

“And incubus.”

Blaine stops and stares, then proceeds quietly.

“Practicing?” He eyes Kurt differently now, his legs tensed to move.

“Never,” Kurt insists, even as his thighs burn like fire at the thought of bedding the creature in front of him.

Blaine nods and his eyes flash, and relief floods Kurt’s body in deep waves.

“Are you blocking now?” Kurt asks, finally able to hold his spine straight again.

“No,” Blaine explains. “I kind of want to see what happens. We could go somewhere more private, I mean, I might be really good for you?”

Kurt flushes hot then cold but nods in agreement.

“Let’s see.”


End file.
